Wrath of the Sun
by irrevocably-twisted
Summary: "Anger is only a natural reaction; one of the mind's ways of reacting to things it percieves to be wrong. While anger can sometimes lead people to do shocking things, it can also be an instinct to show people that something isn't right."-Unknown


Rain pelted down with the unstoppable strength of everything he'd ever held back. Each drop like a tiny bomb, exploding as it collided with the muddy earth outside; a tiny, painful smack that was preceded and followed by many more tiny, painful smacks and that, in combination with each other, beat him to a pulp.

He sucked in the musty air of the garage, trying to pretend it wasn't tainted by her. Trying to pretend he couldn't still detect the faint hint of honey that lingered like a bitter aftertaste in his nostrils. Trying to pretend he couldn't still hear the echo of her laughter, as it had reverberated off of the tired walls once upon a time. Or remember the light in her eyes as she watched him invest his heart and soul into something hopeless and broken, and mend it against all odds.

In the same way he had mended her.

Thunder crashed, shaking the rickety structure around him, a physical manifestation of the rage that swelled in his chest. Fire burned its' way up his spine and flared out to every nerve ending in his body. He could feel it incinerating him from the inside out, sending him to his knees with the horrible, quaking convulsions of tremors he could not control.

Hissing out a string of curses from between his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut and fought against them. His muscles tensed, all of his veins visibly pulsating beneath the thin covering of skin that miraculously contained him even as lightning shot like a fault line through the sky.

He almost was able to force it away, to lock it back up behind the heavy, restraining chains he kept bound around the core of his being. But then the thunder bellowed out at him again and, damn it, he saw her.

Like an angel from the depths of hell, she appeared out of the nothingness that _should _exist behind closed eyes to ruin everything.

At first, she was as she usually was when he pictured her. Vibrant and terribly wonderful and smiling. Smiling a smile that he knew belonged to him. A smile that was nothing compared to what she was capable of, nothing compared to the lunatic grin the other one could put on her face, but it was still the most beautiful smile because it was _his_.

It was simple and easy and right. It was a smile she gave to no one else. It was the proof that he held claim to a place in her heart, however small, and it couldn't be reached by anyone but him. When he looked at that smile, he felt confident that even if she turned her back on him forever, some part of her would continue to harbor their time together. That maybe, someday, for the most precious span of fleeting seconds, she would remember. And she would miss him.

But then her vibrancy faded. Less and less alive, weaker and weaker still, his mind transformed her into a hallow shell of emptiness he couldn't bear to identify as the same person. Her frail arms wound around herself, squeezing helplessly at what was so cruelly torn apart inside, trying _so hard _to make it whole again that when she finally gave up there was nothing left to keep her going.

That was too much for him. The rage grew and grew from within until it burst. Until the convulsions returned with a vengeance, and if he didn't let some of the anger escape, he would literally lose his humanity.

"Argh!" he roared, as he swung around and lashed out at the shelves behind him.

His arm swept furiously across the crowded platform, knocking every last precariously placed item to the floor.

Various tools, wrenches and hammers, screw drivers and crow bars, surrendered to gravity with a heavy clatter that occasionally struck his body. Old, rusted cans used to hold nuts and bolts toppled over and sent their load of metal raining down upon him; creating a parallel to the storm that continued relentlessly outside. Random knick knacks crafted by Quileute hands, bestowed on him by his father, tumbled and were reduced to smithereens upon impact.

Yet the rage still consumed him.

He grabbed the shelf itself and wrenched it from where it clung to the wall, throwing it down and kicking it across the garage. The resulting sound was so deafening it drowned out the simultaneous roll of thunder.

But it did not quench the burn.

So he turned his attention to the motorcycle. The motorcycle she had given him in return for his labor. Just the sight of it riled his anger to another dimension. He yelled again, took it in his hands, and hoisted it directly over his head. Then, with the incredible force of destruction, he slammed it, too, to the floor.

And he tackled it.

Again and again his fists collided with the polished metal, distorting and denting with each mighty blow. Miniscule echoes of pain accompanied the pummeling as the effort drew blood from his knuckles.

Blood.

A very short time ago, it would have been nothing more than a dully noted nuisance. Now the sight stopped him cold.

He lifted one injured hand closer for inspection, watching the red swell and fill the tiny crevices that made up the pattern of his skin. It took only a second for the wound to close. Then he was left healed. And struck with the knowledge that she would still be bleeding.

Still bleeding, and, if she were in the presence of the other one, possibly dead.

_Too much! _the remaining sanity in his irate mind warned, _Too much!_

But it was too late for warnings. Even as he threw himself on to bike, crushing the machine with the entirety of his body and welcoming the corresponding sting, he could not force away the unstoppable thoughts; racing inevitably toward a disastrous conclusion of which he had no control.

Her pale hand marred by the same inoffensive cuts as his had been. Her blood, warm and slippery in its' betrayal, escaping from where it was safely hidden to the open air. The other one watching; his eyes fading into their true color as all of the lies disappear. Her foolish trust shattered. Her helplessness. And, finally, her end.

The storm was close. The intervals between the thunder and lightning were almost seamless. Water poured from the sky, a solid rush taking place of the earlier staccato. Ironic because just as the weather was reaching its' breaking point, so was he.

When the motorcycle had been successfully beat beyond recognition, he abandoned it. Thrusting it aside to meet the wall with an angry crunch while the tremors shook him once more. His shape blurred in and out of existence as the haunting image of her death refused to leave him be. And another image, the far worse image of her becoming _like_ the other one, danced on the sidelines; waiting impatiently to come into full view.

He tried desperately to keep it from overtaking him, both the image and his pending transformation. He lashed out again; not paying attention to where his blow landed, just blindly seeking an outlet.

Glass broke noisily and without resistance.

He whirled around to face what had been the windshield of the rabbit with a knowing sense of dread.

"Goddamn it!" he snarled.

He struck the car several more times out of spite, glaring around at the disastrous mess that was his garage until what he was seeing slowly began to sink in. The grip of anger loosened its hold on him, and then he was laughing.

Laughing because he could. Because there was nothing else to do anyway. Because she had ruined everything yet again and he had let her. But most of all because she was there.

Reflected in one of the many shards of glass scattered across the floor, he could see her. Standing in the doorway gawking at the garage and the mess and him. Soaked to the bone in the light mist that lingered behind the retreating storm. It must have been loud enough to drown out the engine of her truck, or maybe he was just too lost in rage to hear it.

But whatever the case, he kept laughing. And sometime in the middle of his apparently joyous quaking, the spasms turned to sobs.

A tearing sensation ripped through his chest that had nothing to do with phasing and, though he was not aware of it, his arms wrapped around his sides; as if he were mocking her in her darkest hour.

Harder and harder he cried, powerless to stop the outburst. It overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees with a single, pained word. A nickname that tumbled weakly from him, laced with the desperation of a plea.

"Bells…"

A/N: This is me trying to ward off writers block. I've just gotten my computer back up and running from a nasty crash, so I'm excited to be able to post anything at all. I intended this as an exercise of sorts to get myself going again. It wasn't meant to be anything more than a oneshot, but…I'm not so sure I want to end it here. What do you think?


End file.
